


Number 12 Grimmauld Place

by sweeterthanstrawberries



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius Black image, Sirius Black x you, Sirius x reader - Freeform, Sirius x you, Sirius/reader - Freeform, Sirius/you - Freeform, sirius black/reader - Freeform, sirius black/you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthanstrawberries/pseuds/sweeterthanstrawberries
Summary: Staying in the local haunted house leads to no shortage of oddities and a surprising friendship with the owner and his dog.
Relationships: Sirius Black x Reader, Sirius Black x muggle!reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for clicking on my fic! i really hope you enjoy!

Following the road incredulously in your beat-up Toyota, you peer at the map, ensuring that you are in fact going in the right direction. You are driving to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the Black family residence, curiosity and nervousness pumping through you with each thud of your heart.

You work for the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, procuring antiques and artifacts. A few weeks ago, your office was visited by a member of the Black family, asking for the museum to send someone to comb through the manor for any pieces of worth. You happily volunteered for the job, the Black Manor being an interest of yours since you learned of its existence when you moved to the area.

Making one final turn, you are sent down a long stretch of road between a densely wooded area, the large wrought iron gate in sight at the end. The tires crunch over the rocks on the road which is obviously not frequented often by vehicles.

The gate creaks open upon your approach, the B in the center getting split by your car rolling through. You throw a sideways glance out your window, noticing that there are no intercoms or sensors to alert the owners of your arrival. The gate seemingly opened upon its own accord. 

You bounce along the driveway, gasping audibly when the house comes into view. 

Dark bricks, worn by years of storms, are covered in vines growing up the side of the mansion. Large glass windows line the walls above massive black oak doors. Dried red leaves litter the grounds, the bare trees scraggly and gnarled. It is rumored that the house is haunted, and you suddenly understand the root of the stories when looking at the rather spooky house.

You take a deep breath as you park your car, your stomach churning in anticipation. You grab your trunk from the back seat and march up the steps to the front door.

Three solid knocks are laid with one hand, the other gripping your luggage excessively tight. You wait a moment before the door groans open, revealing a short old man dressed in a tattered, ill-fitting black suit. His ears are unusually pointed under his wisps of white hair. He stands, hunched over, peering at you as if waiting for you to speak.

“Hello,” you begin apprehensively, “I’m Y/N Y/L/N from the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

Silently, the man nods and opens the door further, stepping aside to allow you in. You enter clunkily with your large trunk and satchel strung over your shoulder. His eyes narrow as his lips purse into a sneer.

“This way,” he commands tersely, shuffling along the tiles.

You barely register his acrid tone, too transfixed by the large entryway, complete with marble busts on pedestals and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dimly lighting the dark room. The air is close and cold, unwelcoming even.

Bustling after the man, you try to take in every painting lining the candle-lit halls. Green patterned paper covers the walls above the dark mahogany wood paneling that rises from the floor. Odd, moth-eaten tapestries hang from the ceiling in various corridors, depicting horrific and gruesome scenes.

You follow him up the creaking stairs, trudging along with your heavy suitcase. The old man doesn’t stop his shambling gait until he reaches a door set within the wood of the wall, the handle the only thing protruding from it.

“Your room,” he gestures impatiently to the door after unlocking it and handing you the key. “Dinner will be served at seven ‘til seven.”

Without another word or a response from you, he ambles away, disappearing around the corner. The odd time for dinner catches your attention, leaving you wondering at the reason for the peculiarly specific time.

You heave your luggage into your room, and another involuntary gasp draws your breath in sharply. The room you will be staying in is beautiful. Bookshelves line the walls around a particularly intricate mantlepiece, upon which frames of old photographs sit. Candelabras rest on the desk set in front of the window looking out over the front of the mansion. 

Your brown Toyota Corolla looks out of place and junky in the regal, yet dingy estate. A soft haze of rain begins sprinkling, and you can hear the patter of the drops hitting the window. Settling into the room, you tug on a brown turtleneck, the cold air of the house seeping into your skin.

The clock reads 5:30, so you figure you have time to wander before dinner. You lock your door behind you, tentatively shuffling down the hallway. Peeking into each room, you find that most of them are unlocked and widely varying. Some rooms are crammed with books, while others are covered with portraits and paintings. One room, however, leaves your stomach uneasy, as it is lined with shelves of jars of odd creatures and skulls, the smell of something rotting permeating throughout the room. 

In a small room at the bottom of the stairs, you stumble across a large black dog, curled up on the threadbare couch with a book laid out in front of it. A very odd scene, you think to yourself as you push your way further through the door.

Slowly, you approach the dog, your hand outstretched, your palm facing the painted ceiling. 

“Hi,” you whisper to the dog who then nudges your hand with its snout. After a moment, it recedes from your hand and settles back on the couch with its book. Again, odd.

You take a turn about the room, looking at the volumes of leather-bound books on the shelves.

“Beautiful,” you mumble under your breath at the sight in the candlelight.

From the couch, you swear you can hear a low whine from the dog as if it heard you.

“This house is astonishing,” you tell it as you make your way back to the couch, sitting yourself down. “I’ve always wanted to come here. Everyone says it’s haunted, but I don’t believe it. It’s old and has a history, that’s all.”

You glance down at the canine who looks to be listening intently to you.

“They say the people here are crazy. Are they?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at the black dog beside you. It almost imperceptibly nods, but you credit it to a coincidental twitch.

“I’m anxious to meet the owner. The butler was incredibly creepy. Freaky old man. I wonder if the owner is the same. You know, we’re supposed to eat dinner at six fifty-three. What an odd time.”

Abruptly, the dog hops off the couch, the book thudding on the floor at the sudden displacement. In a blink of an eye, it darts out of the room, leaving you confused and curious. From somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock clangs lowly six times, causing you to remove yourself from the small room and get ready for dinner and to meet your host.

*** 

Dressed in your turtleneck and trousers with a few simple gold chains around your neck, you make your way to the dining room, your watch reading 6:47. You realize that you aren’t sure which one the dining room is, so you have to poke your head in a few places to find it.

When you open the grand doors, the room is stunningly large, embellished, and cold. Dark crown molding adorns the high ceilings that give way to beautiful art on the walls, followed by ornate hardwood furniture. The long table in the center of the room is already set and served, full of exorbitant food for two.

You are alone in the room, unsure of what to do, so you sit down at one of the place settings and wait. Nervously twisting the rings on your fingers, you take note of the mid-nineteenth century candelabras on the table in front of you, as well as the imported china you are set to eat from.

At 6:53 exactly, you hear the doors being opened on the opposite side of the room. The man that struts in is handsome, incredibly so, and young. Older than you, yet younger than you had imagined, seemingly in his late thirties. He wears a tailored suit jacket, his black hair falling effortlessly around his face. The doors silently close behind him by themselves, causing your eyebrows to raise, but you quickly school yourself as he approaches.

“You must be Y/N,” he calls as he strides over to his seat at the head of the table next to yours. You make to stand up, but he waves you off, shaking your hand as he sits down. “Sirius Black. Heir and owner of the estate.”

“Thank you, sir, for calling on the museum. We are very anxious to purchase whatever you are willing to sell,” you say in a tone that rings formal, yet grateful.

“My pleasure. Now, shall we eat?” Mr. Black gestures to the food in front of you, proceeding to scoop out a spoonful of potatoes and a serving of grilled salmon from the varying dishes.

“It looks delicious,” you offer politely, nerves still present in your mind, making your stomach churn.

“Our cook is exceptional,” he replies between bites.

You are taken aback slightly by the confidence and ease with which he carries himself. Sirius Black does not reflect the crazed family that is told to run the manor, but looks can be deceiving; you know that to be true. His looks, however, are well above par, and you can’t help but sneak glances at him between sips of water and forkfuls of spinach.

“You are very gracious to let me stay here while I work, Mr. Black,” you say kindly, watching his smile as it spreads across his face.

“You are most welcome. And Sirius, please. I insist that you call me Sirius,” he implores, gesticulating with his cutlery as he speaks.

After a moment, you ask, “How long has the estate been in the family, Sirius?” ensuring that you use his name in the question.

“Generations,” he answers simply. “It was built in the early eighteenth century, but many accidents and…things have rendered the house in need of improvements. Refurbishments. So it has changed a great deal since it was first built, but it still has the same draftiness and-”

“You speak as though you don’t favor the house,” you interrupt when he begins to trail off. His eyes snap to yours and crinkle in both amusement and displeasure.

“No, I don’t,” Sirius says. “I wish I had fonder memories here.”

There is a sense of regret in his tone that makes you cast your eyes to your plate awkwardly.

“But no matter,” he says with forced joviality. “I would be happy to be of any assistance to you if you need it.”

“Thank you, sir. I look forward to beginning tomorrow,” you state honestly, looking at Sirius once more, finding his grey eyes soft and already trained on you.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he smiles.

With that, you wish him goodnight, and head in your separate directions, each with thoughts of the other.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up early the next morning, excited to begin your work of finding pieces for the museum. The dining room is empty, but the table is filled with pastries and fruit. Odd, but you are not necessarily complaining. You do wonder if Sirius has already eaten, politeness maintaining doubt in your mind, but you brush it away after a minute of sitting alone at the long table.

While fetching your logbook and pen from your room, you run into the dog that decides to follow you to the first room you inspect. Inside the room, shelves upon shelves line the walls with old books, creating an aroma of mildewed paper and wood polish. The dog sits in the corner on its hind legs, watching you. It seems particularly well trained, sitting stock-still.

You gingerly pull out larger volumes with intricately painted and embossed spines, determining that these are likely to be of the most value. The first book, however, is extremely strange, almost concerning, as it is titled _Dark Spells Created By Titus M.L. Bermander_.

After opening your book, you find it printed in jet black ink, unillustrated, with the index reading

_Hexes for Mutants_

_Jinxes Without Counters_

_Perfecting Non-Verbal Dark Magic_

and many other intriguing, yet worrying, chapters. The value of the piece could be considerable due to the good condition, unusual content, and elaborate cover and spine.

After setting it down on the desk and making a note of it in your log, you open another thick and sophisticated book, this one titled Potions to Induce Death. You find it a little curious that both books have been on questionable subjects, understanding further the basis of the rumors surrounding the Black family. When you glance through the title pages of the next few volumes, you notice that they too are about witchcraft, dark magic, and potion making.

“They have some really bizarre books,” you whisper to the dog who is still sitting statue-like in the corner. “Death-inducing and spell work. Makes you wonder what they get up to in their free time.”

Shuffling through a few more unique and unsettling books, you log the ones of interest in your pages and move onto the next room, the dog right on your heels.

When you approach the next door, you pause in front of it. Coming through the crack, you think you hear voices inside the room, like a hundred people whispering. You hesitate to open the door, your skin tingling with the onset of panic, but you gather your courage and turn the knob.

No one is in the room when you enter, settling your nerves down, but not completely as you wonder if you are hearing things that aren’t really there.

This room is larger than the last and covered in portraits. There is hardly an inch of the wall that isn’t hidden behind a painting. Walking in, you sweep your eyes around the room, the feeling of someone watching you makes the hair on the back of your neck prick up.

You carefully examine each portrait and the people in them, not really considering them for the museum as they are most likely family members and belong in the house. While looking at a particularly beautiful woman in a frame, you swear you see her painted eyes blink. Taken aback, you shake your head, your mind already convincing yourself that you imagined it.

Circling the room, you notice a portrait tucked in the corner, but the face within it is burned away, rings of char encircling the shoulders of the subject. You pause to look at it, immediately wondering what this person did to deserve such treatment to their memory. The plaque at the base of the frame makes your heart stop and curiosity burn brighter.

Sirius Black.

***

You take a break after the portrait room, deciding to eat lunch and stroll around the grounds, hoping that Sirius doesn’t mind. The dog, however, never leaves your side, trailing right after your footsteps everywhere you go. It never barks and never runs. It obediently follows and sits, making you note that you have never seen a dog act like this one before.

Almost as if someone knew of your intentions of wandering, a paper bag sits beside a sandwich on the dark wood of the dining room table. You pack up your lunch, including a box of strawberries, and make your way out the front door, the dog hot on your heels.

The air is crisp and chilly outside, pinching your cheeks with its icy fingers. You walk down the path that wraps around the side of the house, brown bag of lunch in hand. When you come around the bend, you see that the path leads down to a cemetery at the bottom of the hill.

“Guess we’ve found our picnic destination,” you say, skipping to the open gate.

You have always found cemeteries peaceful. Most people think them morbid and dark, but you find them full of history and memories, intriguing and tragic. This cemetery, however, feels different, wanting yet satisfied. The headstones are extravagant, towering over you as you walk through, but there is no heart behind them, no love or memorial. It feels as though each inhabitant wanted to outdo every other, even in death, the ultimate equalizer.

You find an iron bench in the middle of the sea of tombstones and statues, and sit down, pulling out your lunch. The dog strayed when you passed through the gates, and you see it sitting in front of a particularly plain grave, looking at it as if it were reading the name etched on the stone. Soon enough, the dog trots over and hops up on the bench beside you.

“I met the owner last night, you know. Sirius Black,” you tell it, taking a bite out of your sandwich. “Not what I was expecting. He’s really quite attractive. Couldn’t believe what I was seeing when he walked in yesterday at dinner.”

The black dog cocks his head at your words, and if a dog could smile, you would be sure that this one was.

“And this place is even more amazing than I thought it would be. Disconcerting, for sure. But incredible.”

You then finish your lunch in peace, surrounded by the people of the past.

***

“This one?” you ask as the wet nose nudges your hand toward an inconspicuous wooden box resting on a mahogany writing desk. The dog just pushes your hand again to it before you grab and open the box.

Inside is a beautiful pair of emerald earrings, a necklace, and a ring. The large stones are impeccably set in silver, the color of the jewels glimmering in the low light streaming through the stained glass window.

“How did you know these were in there?” you breathe, setting the pieces back in the box, scribbling notes in your log.

The dog’s knowledge is uncanny, causing suspicion to rouse within you, but suspicion of what? An extremely intelligent dog?

“I should check with Sirius about what I’ve found today.”

At this, the dog darts out of the room, leaving you alone to peruse the shelves of glass jars containing animal skulls, black dirt, and other odd trinkets. You are almost through when you hear someone clearing their throat from the door.

“How was the first day?” Sirius asks brightly, stepping into the room with you.

“Brilliant. Would you mind if I asked you about what I found?” you question as you open the wooden box containing the jewelry.

“Not at all,” he replies while moving closer. He stops when he is a few feet in front of you, his head cocked to the side.

“Your dog,” you pause, realizing that telling him the dog found them would not sound at all professional or plausible, so you correct yourself. “I found these.” You then show him the contents of the box.

“Ah, my great-aunt’s emeralds. I would be happy to sell them to the museum if they are interested,” Sirius declares, not wasting any time to consider.

“Great. They look to be late nineteenth century. Most likely imported from Colombia, but set in,” you study the jewelry again, “France. Is that correct?” you ask, closing the box and placing it back on the desk.

“I do believe,” he nods, smiling, impressed. “On a different note, will you be joining me for dinner?”

“Yes, please,” you say, looking up at him again, noticing the tweed suit that hugs his sloping shoulders nicely. “I would love to.”

“Seven ‘til seven,” he calls as he exits the room, leaving you confused but intrigued, excited for another dinner with Sirius Black.


	3. Chapter 3

Your jumper pulls just a little too tight at the collar when you shuffle into the dining room and find Sirius already seated, lounged and casual in his Victorian furniture. Plates of food are splayed out in front of him, bright red pomegranate seeds against green limes. An ornately decorated chocolate cake adorns the center of the table, your mouth nearly watering at the sight.

“There she is,” Sirius calls out upon seeing you enter. You smile awkwardly, not sure how to approach the situation. You know next to nothing about the man you are with, but you can’t help but be attracted to the mystery.

“Thanks, again, for this opportunity. Your house is incredible,” you say, hoping that that was the answer to breaking the ice at dinner tonight.

Sirius only smiles tightly in response, your heart sinking in your chest at the opposite reaction than you were hoping for. You should have known that it was a bad leading off point because of the numerous times he has expressed his distaste for the house.

Clearing your throat, you try something else. “Do you have any siblings Sirius?”

A blank expression, one of almost pain, crosses his face as he stares at the food on his plate, before he scrunches his eyebrows and looks back at you. Strike two.

“I had a brother, yes,” Sirius answers, nodding, his mind obviously somewhere else. 

This dinner is really not working out for you. Glancing around the room, you focus on the crystal chandelier hanging above the table, biting your tongue to keep you from asking anything else of Sirius. You can’t afford striking out on your second night here.

A quiet settles over the two of you as you eat your chicken and vegetables.

Then suddenly, as if coming to his senses, Sirius asks, “Y/N, why are you here?”

Confusion causes a slight panic to start in your stomach. “What do you mean, Sirius?”

“I’m sorry. That sounded rude, didn’t it? I mean, why are you here, and not Sally from the office next door?”

“Oh, well,” you start a little taken aback by his bluntness. “I’ve always wanted to…I’ve always been interested in this house, I guess.”

Your stomach is turning on itself, wondering if you answered correctly, and when you see his eyes soften and a small smile lift his lips, your heart eases its pounding.

“It is one of a kind,” Sirius concedes, before turning back to his chicken. A quiet sigh escapes you, and you lean back slightly in your chair, breathing in relief.

***

“You know, I really do just love this house,” you express to the mop of black fur lying beside you at your desk. You hear it whine in response, reaching a paw to place on your thigh. Running your palm over the skull of the animal, you sit back in your chair and think about the past few days.

You love the work; the items in the house are extremely intriguing. You note that they are very peculiar and almost eccentric, but they will make a great exhibit in the museum. The house itself is spooky, especially when you always feel like someone is watching you or when the furniture wheezes wherever you sit down. You can’t help but be drawn to the house. There is something special and, quite frankly, magical about it.

“What I want to know, though, is where your owner goes all day,” you say, scratching behind the ears of the dog that you’ve grown quite fond of in your time here. You find it odd that you never see the dog after dinner or hear it barking at night, but you attribute that to the fact that it is extremely well trained and intelligent. 

The owner, on the other hand, is more elusive, only appearing at dinner, and strangely enough, when you announce to the dog that you need him. You want to spend more time with him as you enjoy the way he laughs and the bizarre stories he tells. Sirius Black is a far cry from the rumors you believed when you first knocked on the black oak doors of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

***

Perusing the knick-knacks abundant on the shelves of the room just off the top of the stairs, you hum to yourself, plucking up fountain pens, daggers, and fans, inspecting each. The dog, like usual, is sitting in the corner. You feel bad that you don’t know its name, so you figure you should ask Sirius about that so you have something to call it.

A marble bust sits on a table beside the door, depicting a man with curly hair and a vacant expression. You take a moment to gaze at it, noting the precision with which it was carved. 

“Amazing,” you mumble to yourself.

After you are through marveling at the piece, you step to the side to continue your hunt for the museum. A low groaning and grating noise hits your ears, coming from the direction of the statue. When you see it, a shriek tears from your throat as you back away from the table.

The statue moved. 

Its head turned to look at you, and there seems to be no way to convince yourself you are imagining it. You can feel the presence of the dog, nudging your leg as your breathing becomes more halted and shallow.

The statue moved.

Backing up until your shoulders are flush against the door, you open it and dart out of the room. You swear you hear the grinding of stone again as you run away. 

Your mind is racing with questions, yet blank with panic and shock. Deciding that hot tea is what you need to calm your firing nerves, you shuffle quietly to the kitchen to make yourself a cup.

The statue moved.

When you get there, you let out another startled squeak at the sight of Sirius Black in a white button-down shirt and slacks standing in the kitchen making tea. 

“Y/N, are you alright? Has something happened?” he asks gently, noticing how visibly shaken you appear.

“No, I-,” you pause to take a deep breath to collect yourself. “I’m fine.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I would love some,” you smile, but you can still see the apprehension in Sirius’ face as if he knows you weren’t being truthful.

“Found anything of interest?” he asks as he removes the kettle from the stove, his back turned to you.

Still a little flustered, you try to focus on what you were doing before you ran out of the room. You think about a particular dagger that caught your eye and tell him about it. “There was a dagger,” you take a breath, the distraction relaxing your nerves. “The hilt was encrusted with rubies. Most likely eighteenth-century India.”

By now, Sirius is seated next to you at the kitchen table, placing a hot cup of herbal tea in front of you alongside a small pot of honey. 

“Was the blade about seven inches long?” he asks, able to see that the conversation and number of sips have calmed you down.

You nod silently, slurping as you drink, knowing that your mother is scolding you from her grave.

“That must be my grandfathers’,” Sirius states, void of true emotion.

“If you don’t want to sell, I’m not interested.”

“No, please. Anything is for sale here. I’m considering selling the estate itself soon.”

This comes as a shock to you, and you set your teacup down in surprise. Sirius remains almost stoic, the face of a downtrodden boy flashing across his features for a moment before he looks back to you with soft eyes.

“Yes. As I said, I wish I had fonder memories here.”

“Your dog has seemingly taken a liking to me,” you offer in an effort to change the subject.

At this, Sirius laughs heartily. The previous facade cracks like a shell, allowing a more lively man to emerge.

“He’s a right smart dog,” he replies, never breaking eye contact with you, smiling broadly.

“Does it have a name?” you ask before continuing. “You know, my mother used to only call my cat ‘cat’ when I was a kid. She refused to call it by its proper name ‘Bartholomew’ that I had given to it as a ten-year-old.”

He laughs and it makes you want to make him do it again, just so you can hear it. His hair falls in his face as his shoulders shrug forward in amusement, the white dress shirt doing wonders for them. Dark ink peeks out of the buttons on his chest, and your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

“His name is Snuffles,” Sirius answers through a chuckle. “You named your cat Bartholomew?”

“I called him Barty,” you shrug, smiling as you sip the last bit of your tea.

“Sounds like a diverting fellow. But I am glad that Snuffles likes you. He is a great companion, I have to admit,” he tells you, tone cheeky, making you believe that there is an undercurrent to his words.

“Well, thank you for the tea. Your timing was impeccable,” you say as you lift your cup to place it in the sink.

“Of course. And you would let me know if anything goes wrong?” he asks more as a statement than a question. “Strange things tend to happen in this house.”

His warning reminds you of what you ran to escape, and your breathing becomes shorter ever so slightly. You wonder if he knows that the statue in one of the drawing rooms can move.

“Yes, thank you, Sirius. I’ll see you around,” you nod before exiting the kitchen, Sirius’ words echoing around your mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Another breakfast is spent eating cereal alone at the long dining room table. However, halfway through, Snuffles comes to join you, laying himself at your feet, nudging your penny loafers with his nose as if urging you to drop some food under the table for him. You purse your lips, hiding a smile before snagging a sausage from the platter and holding it in your hand just under the tablecloth.

Snuffles comes right up and eats it out of your palm, ruffing appreciatively.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you whisper, holding out another link for him, and if you didn’t know better, you would say he nodded.

“Alright, come on.”

Snuffles follows you to your room, hopping up on your bed when you aren’t looking. Now, this dog is no puppy; he is massive. When you turn around to find him on the bed, you swear he takes up more space than you do on it.

You put your hands on your hips, reprimanding him. “Off the bed,” you command, earning a whine from him. “I know. I’m no fun. Now off.” You glare at him until he jumps down, finding a place on the ground to sit.

“Thank you,” you nod. You turn to leave, but a prod in the ribs causes you to groan and halt on your way out the door. “Och. This bra is just being a nuisance today,” you mumble as you yank your sweater out from your trousers, pulling it up over your head.

Stumbling over to your luggage, your elbows tangled in your jumper above your head, you trip over a fold in the rug with a loud yelp. You go crashing to the floor, unable to catch yourself with your hands wrapped in fabric.

“Ow,” you moan, lying on the wool rug, shirtless and bruised. “I hope no one heard that. Or saw that.” You glance over at Snuffles who is bounding to your side after watching you go flying. “I’m glad it’s just you. Don’t ever tell Sirius about this, okay?”

You free yourself from the mess you’ve made and stand to scrounge your suitcase for a more comfortable bra. When you find a suitable replacement, you unhook the one you have on, tossing it on the bed before clasping on the new one. You hear a seemingly surprised yelp from Snuffles behind you, so you turn around to see his eyes trained on the ground rather than on you like they usually are. Odd, you think to yourself.

Throwing your sweater back on and tucking it in, you exit your room, logbook in hand, Snuffles trotting right behind you.

***

Today, you decided that you would venture into the large ballroom just off the front entrance. You have yet to step foot into it, not having done more than poke your head through the door. With Snuffles hot on your heels, you enter the grand room.

What you see makes you fall in love with the house even more. Elegant green curtains are draped around the large windows. The ceiling is covered in ornate paintings, and the floor is beautiful dark wood.

Playfully, you pretend to have a partner and dance a few steps of the waltz. Snuffles watches you from the floor, circling your legs, playing along. You come to an abrupt stop when you see a gorgeous grand piano in the corner of the ballroom.

The piano is covered in dust, but it does not hide the beauty of the instrument. You quickly make your way to it, tentatively pressing down on a few keys. Out of tune pitches ring from the strings, but they are not so discordant to keep you from sitting down on the stool and beginning to play.

A slow jazz ballad spills from your fingertips and onto the keys, the words voicing from your throat. By now, Snuffles is by your side intently watching your fingers as they work.

_‘C’est une chanson,_

_Qui nous ressemble._

_Toi tu m’aimais_

_Et je t’ai mais.’_

You sing softly, memories of recitals and hours of practicing through cramped fingers come flooding back with the simple melody.

_‘Nous vivons tous,_

_Les deux ensemble,_

_Toi qui m’aimais_

_Moi qui t’ai mais._

_‘Mais la vie separe_

_Ceux qui s’aiment_

_Tout doucement_

_sans faire de bruit._

_‘Et la mer efface sur le sable_

_Les pas des amants désunis.’_

Finishing the song, you glance down at the dog beside you and smile, his attention glued completely to you.

“I hope Sirius doesn’t mind that I used his piano,” you say softly. “He makes me nervous.” A whine sounds from Snuffles. “In a good way. He’s handsome and kind and…I like being around him.”

You sigh before coming to your senses, remembering why you came into the ballroom in the first place and set to work.

***

You eat lunch again in the cemetery, Snuffles by your side. This time you eat as you walk, studying the headstones of the Black family tree. When you return, the dog trots away down the hall, leaving you to brave the next room of the mansion alone.

Prying the door open, you are met with the stench of vinegar and decay. This is not a room you were looking forward to studying, but you never know what could be found tucked in the corner. Shelves line the walls with jars of suspended eyes and eels. Skulls with missing mandibles stare at you with eyeless sockets. Taxidermied bats and petrified bones litter the desks that are covered in wax drippings and what looks unnervingly like blood.

You try to keep yourself from breathing too deeply without hyperventilating. Your mind flashes back to the staring statue, but you shake those thoughts away before you lose all your courage. Afraid to touch anything, you observe each jar and bone, occasionally reading the tags hanging from the items.

A knock on the door causes you to nearly jump out of your skin, the grotesque air of the room setting you on edge.

“I thought I heard someone in here. Could I be of any assistance?” Sirius asks, striding into the room, not commenting on the quiet squawk that emitted from you at his knock.

“Oh, hello, Sirius. Yes, I, uh. Yes, please. I would love some help,” you ramble, flustered.

“I had a cousin who was very interested in,” he pauses, casting his eyes around the shelves of creatures suspended in jars, “pickling.”

You throw a disgusted look over your shoulder at him, at which he laughs, nodding.

“Gross, I know.”

“Very,” you mumble. “I don’t imagine myself finding anything of particular interest in here. Would you like to come with me to the next room?”

“Lead the way,” Sirius replies.

You note how he follows you closely, almost the same way Snuffles does, but you can’t see how that would be anything more than coincidence, so you brush the thought away. You do notice the distinct smell that surrounds Sirius as you walk side by side. The musk of old books and stale alcohol follow him like a cloud, along with the scent of dog. You attribute all those things to plausible causes: he owns a dog, he lives in a house of old books, and he must get lonely with no one to keep him company but that creepy old butler you haven’t seen since your first day here.

Odd, you think.

That word seems to be becoming the theme of your life at the moment as everything around you can be deemed as odd.

Pushing the door of the next room open, you gesture for Sirius to enter first, following closely behind him. This room is another one lined with portraits, so you figure this would be a good time to have Sirius with you to explain who these people are.

“Are these all family members?” you ask Sirius, beginning to walk around the room.

“Yes,” he answers simply. “Except for this one.”

You turn to see him pointing at a portrait of a beautiful woman with raven black hair and extravagant clothing. Sirius’ face is neutral, if not disdainful.

“Who is she?”

“My great-uncle’s mistress. Blacks have a tendency to marry within the family, so he was married to his first cousin, but he fell in love with this woman, Margaretta Evensmith. They both died under mysterious circumstances. Most likely killed by his wife, but there was a string of suspects that held grudges against him, so no one could really be sure.”

“What a tragedy,” you say with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

Sirius smiles slyly, picking up on your tone, and replies, “Indeed.”

“I wasn’t considering any of these for the museum unless there are any you would like to sell,” you offer.

He looks to be pondering your words before answering, “There is one that I think you might find interesting. Follow me.”

Leading you out the door, Sirius walks with you to the end of the hall and into a smaller room which you recognize to be the room you found Snuffles reading in on that first night.

“You play the piano beautifully, by the way,” Sirius says as you enter. His sudden comment makes your ears burn and cheeks get hot to the touch.

“I’m sorry, Sirius. I should have asked if I-”

“You are welcome to it any time. You really are very good,” he assures, interrupting your rambling.

“Thank you,” you duck your head, embarrassed but pleased by his praise.

“You’re welcome. Now, this one, I would be happy to sell, and I do believe the story that goes along with it might make it a fair attraction at the museum.”

“Oh?” you follow Sirius between the bookshelves, raking your eyes over the spines yet again. He leads you to the back corner of the room that is almost completely hidden by cobwebs and can only be seen through the slivers of light allowed through the maze of shelves.

Hanging on the wall is a painting of a man alone in a chair. Behind him, in the background, is a woman dressed completely in white. There is something hauntingly beautiful about her, standing so far away from the rather handsome young man in the chair. He looks to be pained, tired even, clenching his fists in what could be perceived as grief.

“Who were they?” you ask quietly, stilled by the scene.

“They were Elias and Catherine Black. Eloped together in the middle of the night on Samhain. She was not approved of by the Black family, but he loved her nonetheless. They were married for three days before she tragically disappeared and was never seen by anyone again except for her husband. He claimed that she never left, sure that she was still sleeping next to him every night. She was never home when people came to visit. They say that her spirit haunted him, making him believe that she never died, even until he passed away only ten years later.”

Silence settles over the two of you when Sirius finishes the story, the idea of such love and denial leading this man to believe that his wife haunted his every step striking you deeply.

“How tragic,” you say with complete sincerity.

“Indeed,” Sirius replies solemnly, not an ounce of satire in his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!! the song the reader played in this part is called “Les Feuilles Mort” and translates to “It’s a song that looks like us. You loved me and I loved you And we both lived together, You who loved me, I who loved you. But life separates those who love each other, Slowly, quietly and quietly And the sea erases on the sand the footsteps of broken lovers.” Pretty sad n’est-ce pas?


	5. Chapter 5

Deciding that today Sirius would join you for breakfast in his human form, he gets himself ready in a casual brown jumper and slacks and heads out to find you sitting at the dining room table. He can see you visibly jump when he strides in, noticing that you are often on edge.

“Would you mind if I joined you?” he asks brightly, smiling at the way your face softens at his presence.

“Not at all.”

Sirius is enthralled by you. You are incredibly intelligent, kind, and genuine. He sees you when you think you are alone, and it is the same woman he sees when you are laughing over dinner.

“How has the house been treating you?” Sirius asks in a joking tone, but he asks the question with every intent of sincerity, wondering how you are holding up after the statue fiasco and the constant current of oddities.

“Very well, Sirius. I am in love with this house,” you reply, obviously still convincing yourself that there is nothing wrong with it.

“Wonderful,” he says, nodding, hoping that you continue to assure yourself of its normality so you will stay.

The two of you finish eating breakfast, holding a light conversation as you do, enjoying the company of each other. Once you are finished, you push yourself away from the table and announce that you must get to work, so Sirius bows and watches you leave. He feels a little guilty that he spends his days with you when you don’t know that it is him playing the role of the dog, but he doesn’t feel bad enough to stop.

Transforming and trotting out the door, he finds you emerging from your room, logbook in hand.

“There you are Snuffles,” you say, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “I have loads to tell you. Come on.”

Sirius follows you to the first room of the day and curls up in the corner like usual, ready to enjoy watching you work and listen to your thoughts.

“Sirius showed me this painting yesterday,” you begin, waltzing around the room, examining odd items as you go. “It was beautiful. And so heartbreaking. This man loved his wife so much and was so convinced that she wouldn’t leave him that he imagined her haunting him. Now, the wife, I don’t know if she ran away or just died, but hypothetically, she could have loved him so much that she haunted him just so he wasn’t alone. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Sirius listens intently, recalling the interest with which you had listened to his every word when he told you the story.

“I wonder why she was not approved of by his family and if that had anything to do with her disappearance,” you think out loud.

When Sirius told the story, this was an aspect that he did not dwell on as the reason she was disapproved of was that she was a muggle. This story resonates with him because here he sits, falling in love with one himself.

“Anyway. Sirius has been spending more time with me as of late. He ate breakfast with me, you know. I missed you sitting under the table, though,” you cast a smile to Sirius in the corner before mumbling to yourself about the vase you just pulled down from the shelf.

***

Sirius finds it fascinating how fascinated you are by the cemetery. You eat lunch there almost every day while perusing the tombstones like you are window shopping. You always read every name and make up grand stories to go along with them. He loves your creativity and active mind and how you are able to find beauty in seemingly everything.

At one gravestone, Sirius must always stop in memory, even if it is a bitter one.

_Regulus Black_

_1961-1979_

No epitaph, no flourishes. Just a simple stone with a name and date holds the memory of his brother. No one leaves flowers at the graves when they visit because no one comes. You are the only visitor the cemetery has seen in years.

After lunch, Sirius sneaks off to the kitchen to eat something before finding you in one of the many rooms in the house. You are standing in front of the painting of Elias and Catherine again, studying each stroke of color on the canvas.

Feeling his presence, you whisper, “My heart breaks for them even though I’ve never met them.”

Sirius sits down next to you, gazing up at the painting. You stand in silence, raking your eyes over the worn face of Elias and the beauty of Catherine. You must relate to them somehow to be drawn to their story in such a way.

“I knew a man once that looked like Elias,” you say softly, barely above a whisper. “He ran away from me when I thought we were in love.”

Tears begin to well in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks at the memory rising to the surface. Without thinking, Sirius leans his head against your thigh in a gesture of comfort, causing you to sit down and wrap your arms around him.

“He haunted my steps just as Catherine did, but it was not out of love,” you mumble into his fur. “It sounds pathetic, I know.”

Wiping your cheeks and attempting a watery smile, you look at Sirius with eyes full of emotion.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” you whisper. “I’m not with Sirius.”

You wrap your arms around him again, stroking his fur soothingly, and Sirius sits with you, offering comfort in the best way he can. Your words ring in his ears, striking his heart in a way that makes it swell with hope.

***

Staying with you for the rest of the afternoon, Sirius notices your mood is more somber, most likely due to the resurfacing of the painful memory in front of the painting. You don’t go back to work but rather pull out a beaten-up book from your satchel in your room and curl up on the couch you first found Sirius on.

“Come on, Snuffles,” you pat the spot next to you while opening the pages of the worn out novel. “I’ll read to you.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumps up on the couch, settling into your side.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray. One of my favorites.”

***

Opening the liquor cabinet, Sirius moves to grab the half drunk bottle of muggle whiskey off the shelf, but something stops him. Thoughts of you keep him from pouring himself one glass and then another because he isn’t lonely. He isn’t bored and trying to extract the bitterness from his stomach left there by years of horrid memories. Tipping the bottle has become a habit and one that he no longer feels the need to maintain.

Instead, Sirius makes himself a pot of coffee with a quick flick of the wand and sits himself down at the table, remembering the way you sat with him drinking tea. He wonders how you have lasted as long as you have. Most people who visit the house don’t stay longer than a few days, the smells and sounds and Kreacher all driving them away.

You, on the other hand, are persistent, believing only what you allow yourself to. Your love for the house runs deeper than his ever will, and he admires you for it.

Sirius always tries to keep the house under control, plucking floating candelabras out of the air and hushing the portraits every morning. There is something he hopes you never find, for he fears what she would scream at you, knowing that you would leave at first light the morning after. And nothing sounds worse than you leaving on his mother’s account.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been weeks, and you know your job is approaching the end. You’ve amassed an incredible collection of books, daggers, teacups, and jewelry to report to the museum. Your job is to find them, not to actually pay the price, so you are nearly through with your end of the bargain.

A part of you is sad that your time at Number 12 Grimmauld place is coming to a close. You love it here, even when it is disconcerting, unsettling, and sometimes downright freaky. The magic that surrounds the house has kept your attention, and you will be very sorry to see it go.

More than just the house, you will be sorry to leave the company of Sirius and Snuffles. Both have become companions to you, comforting you and making you laugh. You will miss them more than you would have guessed.

These thoughts all bounce around your head as you mosey down a hallway you haven’t noticed before in a random corner of the house. You count the doors as you pass them, your mind aimlessly bouncing from one idea to the next, unable to pin a thought down long enough to have any ones of interest.

Stopping in front of where the next door should be, you examine the hanging tapestry, depicting a moonlit forest and a white unicorn in the trees. You glance down the hallway and note the odd placement of the hanging, sure that another door equidistant apart from the others should be right where you are standing.

Curiosity gets the better of you as you poke your head behind the tapestry. Hidden behind the fabric is an inconspicuous brass handle on a black door. Attempting to open it, you assume that it would be locked so you don’t twist very hard.

A barely audible click sounds, and the wood creaks open. Stepping inside, you smell the thick and close air, the aura untouched.

Blood curdling shrieking assaults your ears the moment you enter the room. You cast your eyes about, looking for someone else, fearing the worst. The story of _Jane Eyre_ flashes through your mind, wondering if Sirius Black keeps his crazy wife locked in the attic, or in this case a hidden room.

What you find instead is almost more terrifying as it is unexplainable and surely a figment of your imagination. The source of the screaming is an old woman in a painting hung on the wall.

“Filth! Muggle! Impurity! Get out of my house!” this woman cries shrilly.

Your mind is blank with horror and confusion, frozen in place by the screeching portrait. This cannot be real, you repeat to yourself over and over again, feeling around the wall for the doorknob, unable to pry your eyes off of the wailing woman.

You don’t understand the words she is screaming, barely able to discern through the screak. Grasping onto the brass knob, you fling the door open and dart out of the moldy room, forgetting about the tapestry covering the door. You run into the hanging, unintentionally tearing it from its fastenings, causing it to fall over your head and send you to the floor with a loud crash. Untangling yourself quickly, you run down the hallway, the sounds of the woman screaming ringing in your ears until you are locked in your own room, breathing frantically.

You collapse on your bed in complete shock and disbelief. You tell yourself that there is no way that could have been real, that you were hallucinating, which isn’t really much of a comfort. You know that Sirius will no doubt have heard the crash and the wailing, so you await his knock.

You pace as you wait, all the odd things that have happened to you during your time at Number 12 Grimmauld Place replay in your mind’s eye. The whisperings through the crack of the door of the portrait rooms. The woman blinking at you. The weird books. Snuffles and his human-like mannerisms. The statue that moved. A clearer picture begins to form in you as you remember each occurrence. _Could what they say about the Blacks really be true?_

Your thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on your door.

Walking to it, you turn the lock and open the door. On the other side stands Sirius, his face filled with worry, his hands woven together in concern.

“Y/N, what happened? Are you alright?” he asks quickly, eyes intently watching you as you step aside to let him enter. You move to sit on the bed, slumping over, considering your options. You could tell Sirius the truth and sound crazy or tell him that nothing happened. The temptation to pick the latter is extremely strong, but you shake your head at yourself as well as in response to his question.

“Sirius, there is something about this house,” you look up at him as he kneels in front of you. “I keep convincing myself I’m imagining things, but there was this woman.” You crimp your eyes closed, breathing heavily before confessing the rest. “A portrait in a hidden room was just screaming at me, and there is no way I can convince myself it wasn’t real.”

You make eye contact then break it immediately, unable to brave seeing him look at you with exasperation.

“That’s because it was,” Sirius states. Your eyes flash to meet his that are full of candor and sincerity. “That woman was my mother. I’m so sorry you found her.”

Your jaw drops open at his words as they are the opposite of what you were expecting. His hand grabs yours, causing you to jump in surprise ever so slightly. He pulls back at your reaction, but you snatch his hand again, not letting it leave your lap.

“What do you mean? What are you saying, Sirius? That that painting was alive?”

“Not exactly,” he stops, eyes narrowing, an internal debate clearly going on in his mind.

“What is it, Sirius? I can see you thinking,” you urge.

“Y/N, you must promise me that you will never repeat what I’m about to tell you,” Sirius says gravely at which you nod. He takes a deep breath, then speaks. “I’m a wizard.”


	7. Chapter 7

“A what?” you ask immediately after his confession.

“A wizard,” Sirius repeats.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

The two of you stare at each other as you try to decide if he is telling the truth. After your encounter with a screaming painting, you are more inclined to believe him. But how could this be?

“I know it might be hard to believe. Why don’t you let me prove it to you?”

Nervously, you nod your head, unsure as to what to expect. You watch Sirius pull a short wooden stick out of his coat pocket. A wand, you realize. He is being totally serious. He thinks he is a wizard.

Raising the wand in front of him, he mumbles something under his breath, and you watch in disbelief as the trunk at the end of your bed starts levitating four feet off the ground. Your jaw agape, you flounder for words, eyes darting between Sirius and the floating luggage.

With the lowering of his wand, the trunk is set back on the ground.

“Impossible,” you breathe, not quite comprehending what just occurred. “Sirius, that can’t be real.”

“Let me show you something else then,” he says patiently, waiting for you to get a grasp on yourself and begin believing him.

Wand raised, he mumbles then flourishes the wood, successfully putting out all the candles illuminating your room. The flashes of lightning are the only thing lighting the room now, the sound of rumbling thunder the only words spoken.

As easily as they were extinguished, all of the candles are lit, leaving you speechless and extremely curious.

“What are you thinking?” Sirius asks gently.

“Those things I saw really happened,” you state quietly. 

He nods in response. “Will you leave?” he asks with surprising melancholy.

“No. I want to know more.”

At this, Sirius smiles softly, placing his wand back into his pocket. He looks relieved but tentative.

“Want to ask over coffee?”

You shake your head and watch his face fall slightly. “I’m too keyed up for coffee. Hot chocolate?” you amend.

A lopsided grin spreads across his features, nodding once in agreement. “Hot chocolate,” he repeats.

***

“How’d you learn? And is it a family thing?” you ask as you walk to the kitchen, barely breathing between bouts of questions.

“I went to school. And yes, and no. All my family are witches and wizards, but we aren’t the only people that practice magic.” 

Sirius is patient with all the questions you throw at him.

“What else can you do?”

“There’s a lot of different kinds of magic and spells. I can make things float like you saw. I can make things put themselves back together when they break. I can cook with magic.”

“So you were complimenting yourself that first night at dinner,” you tease.

“Yes, I guess I was,” he says nonchalantly, chuckling at your quip.

“Speaking of dinner, why the seven ‘til seven? Is that a magic thing?”

Barks of laughter erupt from Sirius as he opens the kitchen door. “No,” he can barely make out. “You remember the woman screaming at you?”

“Hard to forget,” you answer, pulling out a chair at the table.

“Well, that was my mother-”

“Is that actually her, or just a painting that’s bewitched or something?”

“It’s not actually her. Magical portraits can move and talk. Photographs too-”

“But why didn’t they while I was in the room?” you interrupt again, eliciting another chuckle from Sirius.

“Because I asked them to,” he states before continuing, “Anyway, my mother, with whom I did not have a good relationship, mind you, was obsessively anal about punctuality at dinner which was always at six o’clock every night. So I like to antagonize her by making dinner at the most inopportune and significantly late time.”

“Just so she can roll in her grave,” you supply. 

“Essentially, yes,” he nods, tone full of mirth. 

You watch Sirius charm two mugs to fill themselves with hot chocolate and parade their way to your hands. Still slightly unnerved by the casual magic, you are beginning to accept the idea that it is real.

“Does your relationship with your mother have anything to do with why your portrait is burned in the room off the first floor hallway?”

“Yes. I ran away when I was sixteen, and she decided to burn my memory when I left,” Sirius says without an ounce of regret or anger. He treats the information like it was inevitable and not at all unexpected or horrible.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, not sure what else to say.

“Don’t be,” he shrugs, “I’m not.”

“Another question,” you start, hearing Sirius hum in acknowledgment. “The books in the house, they’re about real things? There are ‘hexes for mutants’?” you ask, using your fingers to quote from that book you found on your first day working.

“Well, that term is a little archaic. Mutants,” he explains. “But there are such things as hexes and jinxes.”

“I see. And your dog-” you stop when Sirius splutters on his hot chocolate. “Your dog. There is something about him. I don’t know, but now that you say you’re a wizard, you must know. He’s smart and knows things.” 

Tugging on the sleeve of his jacket, his eyebrows scrunch and a slight grimace adorns his features. He knows something and is obviously hesitant to reveal it. 

“I, uh, well. What you should know is that I didn’t really plan on you ever finding out about me,” Sirius says, eyes trained on your fingers tracing the rim of your mug.

“What is it, Sirius?” you ask, urging him on.

“Okay. How do I say this?”

“You’re the dog.”

“I’m the dog,” he repeats ruefully, lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Oh my gosh, Sirius! I told you things! And you let me!” you groan, your tone is exasperated but slightly joking.

A little chuckle comes from him before he defends, “What was I going to say as a dog? Bark at you until you stopped?”

By now you are both laughing, embarrassment prickling your skin. 

“I told you I liked you,” you say a little more soberly.

Sirius’ laughs ease, his smile still broad. “Has that changed?” he asks with surprising sincerity.

“It hasn’t,” you reply softly, taking a sip of your hot chocolate that has remained warm even after the minutes of unattendance. 

“‘M glad to hear that,” Sirius says, mirroring your action. “Stay, please.”

“I will,” you promise quietly, fully intending to keep your word.


End file.
